[CHAPTER VII.]
AT THE TEATRO EZZELINO
From my mother I had inherited one of those highly strung organizations which are largely affected by their surroundings, and which, like an Æolian harp, to the sighing wind vibrate with every breath of passion that passes over them--organizations which take their colour, their bias, their desires from the last event which occurs, and which are entirely in sympathy with the predominating feeling of the moment. In childhood this dangerous spirit of moods and fancies had been fostered by an old Scottish nurse, who used to thrill me with wild stories of Highland superstitions, and with weird ballads of elfish fantasy; but since I had mixed in the world I had learned to control and sway my imaginative faculty, and had thus acquired a command over myself. But, as I said before, superstition is in every one, and waxes or wanes according to their surroundings; so the terrors of childish tales, which had been half-forgotten in the bustle of worldly life, now came upon my soul with full force in this haunted city of Verona. The burial-ground, the ghostly room, the accursed palace, the phantoms of evil-seeming, all these peopled the chambers of my brain, with their unreal horrors, until I became so nervous and unstrung, that every sudden noise, every unexpected sound, and every shadowy comer, made me thrill with supernatural fear as if I were again a child listening to tales of devildom.
I knew this mood was a bad one, and would have sought cheerful society to drive away the evil spirit had I known where to seek it. But there were no English at my hotel, and, in the present state of affairs, the Casa Angello was not particularly cheerful, so as I did not care about spending a lonely evening, I methought myself of my intention to go to the Teatro Ezzelino. On glancing at the paper I saw that the opera for the night was "Lucrezia Borgia;" and this name gave me a renewed sensation of horror. The lady of the sepulchre had taken in my imagination the semblance of Ferrara's Duchess, and the memory of the terrible daughter of Pope Alexander seemed never to leave me. She had come from the graveyard, she had supped in the fatal chamber, she had murdered her lover; and now, when she had vanished into thin air, I was to see her represented on the stage in all her magnificent wickedness. I had a good mind not to go, but seeing that there was a ballet after the opera, I thought I would brave this phantom of the brain, and find in the lightness of the dancing an antidote to the gloomy terrors of the lyrical drama.
The cooking at my hotel was somewhat better than the usual run of Italian culinary ideas, so I made an excellent dinner, drank some Asti Spumati, an agreeable wine of an exhilarating nature, and felt much better when I started for the Ezzelino.
It was one of those perfect Italian evenings such as one sees depicted by the glowing brush of Turner, and there yet lingered in the quiet evening sky a faint purple reflection of the sunset glories. No moon as yet, but here and there a burning star throbbing in the deep heart of the sky, and under the peaceful heavens the weather-worn red roofs and grey walls of antique Verona mellowed to warm loveliness in the twilight shadows. Beautiful as it was, however, with the memory of that eerie night still on me, I had no desire to renew my moonlight wanderings, so, without pausing to admire the enchanting scene, I hastened on to the theatre to be in time for the first notes of Donnizetti's opera.
The Teatro Ezzelino is a very charming opera-house, built in a light, airy fashion, with plenty of ventilation, a thing to be grateful for on hot summer nights. All the decorations are white and gold, so that it has a delightfully cool appearance; nevertheless, what with the warmth of the season without, and the glaring heat of the gas within, I felt unpleasantly hot. The gallery and stalls were crowded, but as it was only eight o'clock, most of the boxes were empty, and I knew would not be filled until late in the evening by those who, tired of the well-known music of "Lucrezia," wanted to see the new ballet.
Having glanced round the theatre, I bought a book of the words, hired an opera-glass from an obsequious attendant, and settled myself comfortably for the evening. The orchestra--a very excellent one, directed by Maestro Feraldi, of Milan--played the prelude in a sufficiently good style, and the pictured curtain arose on the well-known Venetian scene which I had so often beheld. The chorus, in their heterogeneous costumes of no known age, wandered about in their usual aimless fashion, shouted their approval of smiling Venice in the ordinary indifferent style; and a very good contralto who sang Orsini, having delivered her first aria with great dramatic fervour, they all vanished from the stage, leaving the sleeping Genaro to be contemplated by Lucrezia Borgia.
I was disappointed with the Duchess when she arrived, and I must say that my majestic evil lady of the sepulchre looked far more like the regal sister of Cæsar Borgia than this diminutive singer with the big voice, who raged round the stage like a spitfire, and gave one no idea of the terrible Medusa of Ferrara, whose smile was death to all, lovers and friends alike. The tenor was a long individual, and Lucrezia being so small, their duets, in point of physical appearance, were sufficiently ridiculous; but as they sang well together, their rendering of the characters, artistically speaking, was enjoyable. The chorus entered and discovered Lucrezia with Genaro; the prima-donna defied them all with the look and ways of a cross child; there was the usual dramatic chorus, and the curtain fell on the prologue with but slight applause. I did not go out, as I felt very comfortable, so amused myself with looking round the house, when, during the first act of the opera, two officers entered the theatre and took their seats in front of mine; They were two gay young men, who talked a great deal about one thing and another in such raised voices that I could hear all they said, some of which was not particularly edifying.
During the first act which succeeds the prologue they were comparatively quiet, but when Lucrezia entered in the second to sing the celebrated duet with Alfonso, they were loud in their expressions of disapproval concerning her appearance. The music of this part of the opera is particularly loud and noisy, but even through the crash of the orchestra I could hear their expressions of disapproval.